


As Shackles, Not Armor

by saltandlimes



Category: Catalyst: A Rogue One Novel - James Luceno, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Clone Wars, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Pre-Rogue One
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-09-16 02:02:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9268802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandlimes/pseuds/saltandlimes
Summary: For Galen and Lyra Erso, as for Orson Krennic, there is no fate, no destiny, no grand prophecy. They are not Skywalkers, after all.Their story is, in the end, just a private tragedy.





	1. To Friendships, Old and New

**Author's Note:**

> _Wear your tragedies as armor, not shackles_
> 
> -Anonymous

Lyra is delighted. After all this time, she’s finally getting another piece of the puzzle that is Galen Erso. Another way to understand this remarkable person that she thinks she’s falling in love with. A chance to learn about his past, his place in the world. Orson Krennic comes up in every story Galen has ever told her of his time in the Futures Program, and now she’s going to finally put a face to a name. _I want you to meet him, Lyra,_ Galen had said, eyes bright and her hand pressed between his. _He’s my best friend. You’ll love him._ And she’s prepared to welcome him with open arms, to embrace new confidant, a new star to the constellation of her life. 

From the moment she first sees Orson, however, she wonders if that wasn’t a little naive. They step into the private dining room Galen’s “Orson” has gotten in one of Coruscant’s mid-level restaurants. There's a thin man of middling height pouring himself a glass of amber liquor at the sideboard. He looks up as the door opens. And his face, harsh angles and sharp lines, well, it shatters into a smile so bright Lyra thinks it might burn a planet to dust.

He rushes over to them after setting the glass down so fast it almost tips over. When he gets to them, he tugs Galen into an embrace, one arm wrapped tight around Galen’s waist. The other reaches up to tangle in Galen’s hair, to pull them closer together.

Galen hugs back.

Then they're stepping away from one another, Orson’s hands sliding to rest on Galen's biceps, Galen holding tight to Orson’s hips.

“You've gotten a sunburn.”

“Not all of us can live in our offices, Orson.”

“I'll have you know I leave the building quite regularly. At least once a week. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“If you're talking about a reputation for finding the worst party to crash, I'll give you that. But I meant some of us actually experience nature, sun sometimes.”

“I'm not a plant, I don't photosyntheize. Anyway, I don't think you're one to talk. How many times have I gone to your lab and found you passed out on a table there?” They laugh together, Galen’s rich, deep burr of a laugh echoing underneath Orson’s drier chuckle.

Lyra has never gotten him to laugh this easily.

Orson pulls Galen back into him, aligning their bodies as he wraps his arms around Galen’s shoulders. He presses their cheeks together, never once looking at where Lyra stands, just in Galen's shadow. Instead, his eyes slip closed, face relaxed and mouth slack.

It takes a long time for either of them to let go.

But finally Orson steps back. Finally Galen unwinds his arms from where they've wrapped around Orson’s waist.

“I've completely lost my manners,” he says, turning back to Lyra. “Orson, this is Lyra. Lyra, this is Orson, my oldest and closest friend.”

Lyra nods. They're excited to see one another. That's all. It's been months, after all.

Orson’s eyes still burn bright as he steps forward, but Lyra wonders if maybe this isn't the wild joy of the stars themselves, kindled in the heavens, but rather the horror of a collapsing nova.

She pushes the thought aside. He's smiling at her, after all. 

“Galen's told me so much about you.” Orson grabs her hand, and she can almost feel her bones grind together in his tight grip.

“Oh dear. I swear, it's not _all_ true.” He winks at her, “well…the good bits are.” Galen laughs again.

“Have there ever been any good bits, Orson?”

“I'll have you know, I was very studious during that trip to the Corellian shipyards.” Galen splutters a little.

“You snuck off ten minutes into the tour!”

“And you didn't?” Orson steps away from Lyra, angles back to Galen. “I'll have you know I learned far more after that than I ever could have on the tour.”

For some reason, Galen flushes bright red.

Lyra clears her throat, and they both swing towards her, Galen blushing even harder now. Orson straightens up, moving from where he's almost leaning against Galen.

“Can I get you a drink, Lyra? I want to hear all about how you managed to hook Galen here. He's a hard man to catch.” He smiles over his shoulder at her, teeth gleaming as he goes to the sideboard.

“Wine, whiskey?” He pulls out another lowball glass and fills it with the same amber liquor he’s drinking.

“White wine is fine.” Orson takes a glass down and pours.

“One of the things I like about this place.” He remarks, bringing her the glass. “They let you do this sort of thing for yourself. Much more intimate.”

He goes back to the sideboard and catches up the two glasses of what has to be whiskey. When Galen takes one of them, their fingers brush. Galen's eyes slip closed as he takes a sip, head tilted back a little.

“Perfect choice, as always, Orson. Thank you for this.” Orson beams.

Lyra didn't even know Galen liked whiskey.

They settle themselves around the small table where a small plate of hors d’oeuvre sits. Once they're settled, Orson leans forward, hands clasped in front of himself.

“So what is it that you do, Lyra? It's been hard to get anything out of Galen about you.” 

Lyra feels her cheeks pink up. Galen has hardly shut up about Orson since they came back to Coruscant. _Lyra, he’s brilliant. He doesn't like people to know, wants to seem like he's only a friend, just the affable manager able to deal with the quirks of the intelligent. But he got top marks in the program._

_Lyra, he designed that building. He did the skyway bridge in the program, before he even graduated._

_Lyra, do you think he would like this shirt?_

“I'm a cartographer and surveyor.” She answers. Maybe Galen wanted her to get to share about herself. “I specialize in the exploration and mapping of crystal rich cave systems.” Orson grins, and there's a flash of teeth again.

“A real outdoors type then. Strong as an bantha and all that?” Orson waves a delicate hand. “I hope our Galen isn't too boring for you.”

“Orson!” Galen protests, but Lyra can hear the laughter in his voice. “Don't go scaring her off.”

“I would never!” There’a mock horror in Orson's voice, but his eyes have gone steel grey. 

“And by never you mean only on Corellia, Lothal, and how many times on Brentaal?” Galen ticks off the names on his fingers.

“Now see here, Galen. That twi’lek on Lothal was going to rob you blind. She wasn't after your cock, it was your credits she wanted.” They laugh for a moment before Orson turns to her. “Please excuse my language, Lyra. Old friends have few secrets of that sort.”

A shiver runs up her spine, absurd and sudden.

“There's nothing to forgive, Orson. I spend my time among explorers. We aren't known for having the cleanest mouths.” The minute the words leave her lip she regrets them. Orson licks his lips, glances over at Galen. But he doesn't say anything, and Lyra can't decide if she's grateful that he doesn't pursue the innuendo.

Galen glances between the two of them, oblivious as usual.

“What have you been up to, Galen?” Orson finally asks. Lyra imagines that he must have felt the silence starting to weigh, felt the heaviness of both her and Galen’s attention.

Then again, he seems the sort of man who likes being watched.

Galen launches into an explanation of his latest research, Orson nodding at all the right moments, asking all the right questions. Lyra watches. Galen has the look in his eyes he gets when he talks about his work, as though a door has been unlocked, and some secret world deep inside him is peaking though the slim, bright opening.

Orson seems riveted to Galen's every word. Lyra takes the moment to look him over. Severely styled coat - Corps of Engineers, Galen told her earlier. Carefully styled hair, but a single lock has worked itself free to fall across his forehead. Thin, delicate, soft where Galen is muscle and sun-dark skin. Eyes that glimmer in the soft light of the room, almost magnetic in how they flash above soft lips. Not Lyra’s type at all, but quite handsome if you go in for that sort of thing.

From what Galen has said, a lot of people do.

Lyra’s jolted out of her study when a waiter places a plate in front of her, quickly followed by a glass of water. She didn't even notice him come in.

When Galen also has a plate, Orson picks up his refilled glass of whiskey.

“Let’s have a toast. To friendships, old and new. May we always have friends who will help us reach our top potential.” He looks straight at Lyra, eyes locked on hers as he takes a long sip of his drink. Lyra tries to smile back, but her lips won't bend, won't even quirk upward.

“Orson, what in the galaxy are we eating?” Galen asks. Lyra breaks eye contact, glances down at her plate for the first time. It's a bright orange color, reds and greens and blues mixed in.

“It's called curry. Very popular right now on Coruscant. I figured you wouldn't have gotten to try it yet, what with wandering all over the backwaters.” He spoons up some of the orange broth, takes a sip. “It's particularly good here, in my opinion.”

They eat in silence for a few minutes before Orson asks them how they like it.

“Better than camp food?”

“Lyra's actually a rather good backwoods cook.” Orson eyes her.

“A woman of quite a few talents, I see.” His voice is dry. Lyra suddenly feels as though she's going to blush again. There's something off in the compliment, something jarring. But then he goes on, jovial again.

“Anyway, I like the chance to get out, enjoy the city. They've got a lovely balcony to drink caf on after dinner.”

The rest of the meal goes in much the same way. Lyra asks about Orson’s work, watches as he and Galen toss stories back and forth, a web of shared experiences that stretches back years. She watches as Orson drains the rest of his glass of whiskey, gets another. As he leans closer to Galen as the meal goes on.

She watches as Galen leans in as well.

Finally they're all done with their food. The waiter comes to clear their places, and Orson gets up, wobbling a little. His voice is smooth, though, as he asks what they want with their caf.

They all take it black.

When Orson has poured for all of them from a warmer sittings next to the whiskey bottle, he tips a healthy dose of it into his and Galen's cups. Lyra shakes her head when he raises an eyebrow in offer.

The air on the balcony is crisp and clear, filtered and carefully temperature controlled. Orson makes his way to the railing, sets his cup on the edge as he looks out. Lyra settles herself in one of the low chairs, Galen standing next to her.

“It's beautiful, isn't it? So incredible, and we're only going to make it better.” Orson's voice is low, words murmured half to himself. Galen smiles fondly at him.

“You already have.”

“Not like you will.” Orson’s voice is louder this time. He takes out a silver case, flicks it open. Galen goes to him as he holds it out, plucking something out from inside. There's the flash of a sparker, the crackle of thin paper catching. Lyra catches the smell of cloves.

They stand there next to one another for a few long moments, looking out at the city. Lyra watches as the smoke curls up above them to hang in the night-bright air. The sounds of Coruscant are muffled, and there is something that makes the air seem to hum around them. She leans back in her chair, watching the lines of Galen’s shoulders, the way his head tips back when he blows smoke into the night air. 

She didn’t know he smoked. 

Orson is leaning on the railing, back bent a little. As Lyra watches, he slides sideways just the slightest bit, so that his shoulder brushes lightly against Galen’s. They stand there, just barely touching. Lyra’s caf is too hot on her tongue, and she gives a muffled yelp. Galen doesn’t turn around. 

“I’m glad you’re back, Galen.” Orson’s voice is pitched low, so low Lyra can hardly hear it. “I need you here. I can’t… I don’t… it’s different without you on Coruscant.”

“I missed you too, you know.” Galen mumbles out. There’s a long, empty moment, with only the buzz of electronics in the background and the faintest crackle from Galen and Orson’s cigs. Then Orson straightens, flicking the butt of his off the railing. He turns and raises his caf to Lyra, eyes bright and alcohol-slick. 

“Now that Galen’s seeing you, maybe he’ll think about settling down a bit. Staying here for a while.” Lyra watches as his throat works, a long swallow of caf and whiskey. 

“I’m an adventurer, Orson. That seems unlikely.” Galen turns, and she watches as he rests a hand on Orson’s shoulder, gives it a squeeze. 

“You never know, Lyra. You never know.” Orson’s voice seems laughter incarnate. She shakes her head again. Galen still has his hand resting on Orson’s shoulder. 

“Galen, it’s getting late. We should probably let Orson get his rest.” She struggles to make her way out of the low chair. Galen nods, glances over at Orson. Orson licks his lips. 

“Lyra’s right. We still have to take a speeder back to the apartment we’re renting.” 

“Together?” Galen nods, and Lyra watches that shift in color flicker though Orson’s eyes again, grey steel flashing and sparks glittering. 

“Good. Then at least I can count on Lyra making sure you’re not lonely.” Orson laughs, then pushes his way off the railing to lead them back inside. The waiters have cleared the remaining plates from dinner, and their light coats are hanging on a rack near the door. Lyra grabs her and Galen’s functional jackets - pointless here on Coruscant - and passes one to Galen. Orson’s coat is more decorative, something in the lines of the sleeves echoing the uniforms of the judicials. He tosses it over his shoulders like a cape, and they all step out to make their way to the front of the restaurant. 

The entrance is rather unassuming, just a wide landing zone for speeders and a bright archway with the name of the restaurant. But once they’re there a valet comes rushing up to Orson.

“Do you want your speeder brought around, Mr. Krennic?” Orson looks ready to say yes, but then Galen steps up next to him. A hand comes to rest on Orson’s shoulder, and Lyra can see the quick squeeze Galen gives. 

“No, I’ll get in the morning. Just call one for me and one for Dr. Erso here.” Galen’s head tilts in an almost imperceptible nod, and the valet hurries away. 

“I’d almost forgotten what it’s like having you looking out for me, Galen.” Orson says, as Lyra steps up next to him. Galen chuckles, that deep noise of rolling rocks Lyra isn’t sure she’s heard before tonight. 

“You’ll never forget that. I’m forever ruining your fun.” Orson laughs for a second, but then, he turns to Galen again, hands finding Galen’s shoulders. 

“I’d rather be friends with you and have you watch out for me than any amount of fun, Galen.” Lyra can see the faintest hints of a flush creep across Galen’s face, but he says nothing. They stand there for a moment, still and silent. Orson’s arms are the only things that connect them, but Lyra can almost see the way the air in between them trembles, shuddering with energy too bright and real to be only in her mind. 

They step apart, and Galen makes his way to Lyra as a speeder pulls up to the platform. 

“You take this one,” Orson tells them. “I’m sure you’ve got farther to go.” Galen smiles. 

“Thank you,” Lyra tells him, before Galen can do something like refuse. “And it was lovely to meet you, Orson.” 

“And you as well, Lyra. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you both soon but until then take good care of our Galen here.” He turns slightly to Galen, seems about to step forward again. But instead, he simply smiles. “It’s good to have you back, Galen.” Galen nods. 

The speeder chirps at them, and Lyra tugs Galen over to it. They slide into the backseat and she gives the driver the address of their rented apartment. As they pull away, Galen turns, looks over his shoulder to see the restaurant landing platform and Orson’s slim figure disappearing into the bustle of Coruscant’s nights. 

Lyra bites her tongue. 

The ride back is silent, Galen tipping his head back to rest, eyes closed, and Lyra staring at her fingers as they twist in her lap. The smell of cloves and smoke tickles at her nose as she fingers over a small scar on one of her knuckles. She digs a fingernail into the roughened skin, wondering for a moment how deep the twisted tissue goes. Galen says nothing. 

The speeder comes to a stop with a bump at the entrance to their apartment complex. Galen jumps out and offers a hand to Lyra. His skin feels too hot. She drops his hand the moment she can. 

They step in the lift and Lyra can feel her stomach churning. It’s twisting into knots, and she’s not sure if they can be unraveled. Her fingers clench at her sides. She tosses her head a little, trying to throw away the strange feeling crawling under her skin. 

When they step out and Galen unlocks their door, Lyra pushes past him to step inside. She pulls off her coat and grabs his from him to hand them in the small closet with hands that seem too fast. Then she goes over to the small kitchen and pours them both a glass of water, cool and clear. For a moment, she thinks that the slide of it down her throat will wash this feeling away. That it will clear her mind of smoke and fear and that she will wrap her arms around Galen. She sets the glass down with a heavy thunk.

“What the fuck was that, Galen?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Hi, this is the galennic longfic I've been talking about. I'm really excited to get going on this! More tags to be added once the story really kicks off. 
> 
> +Can the ship name for Galen/Lyra be ~~Galyra~~ LYREN?
> 
> +Don't you worry! The entire story is not going to be from Lyra's POV! You're going to get both Galen and Orson in there quite soon!
> 
> +Thank you to all the darlings who have listened to me agonize over posting this. You're dolls. 
> 
> +Come hang out with me on tumblr and obsess over all the Rogue One characters [@saltandlimes](http://saltandlimes.tumblr.com/)


	2. The Taste of Small Vices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end notes for minor chapter warnings.

Galen licks a droplet of water off his lips. Lyra is leaning bent over the counter in front of him, a tendril of hair curling across her forehead. There's a flush high on her cheekbones and light shining in her eyes. For a moment, he just watches. He drinks her in. Then he finally hears her words, feels the bite in them through the haze of whiskey and happiness still drifting behind his eyes.

“What was what, Lyra?” He takes a step forward, reaches out to grab her hand where it’s pressed into the counter top. She pulls it away. Galen stares down at the counter top, at where his hand has fallen to rest. 

“That… that entire thing! You, and him, and…” Lyra trails off. She reaches out, and Galen feels the dampness of her palm as she lays her hand on top of his. Her fingers squeeze for a moment. 

“You really don’t know, do you?” Galen presses his lips together. His head feels a little like it was taken off, and then screwed back on, only the fastenings weren’t quite tightened enough when it was replaced. And so now there’s a looseness to him that shouldn’t exist, a kind of off-kilter wobble to the world. He should know better than to try to keep up with Orson when drinking. He shakes his head. 

“Oh, Galen.” Lyra’s voice softens. She reaches up to brush his hair out of his face, then to tickle at the short hairs at the base of his neck. Galen leans into her touch, into the softness of her palm, the way it cools his cheek. Her fingers trace over the curve of his ear. 

“We’ll talk about it in the morning, alright?” Galen sighs. He’s still not sure what there is to talk about, but Lyra has taken him by the hand, is leading him to the bedroom. He follows. Their footsteps sound loud in the empty apartment. There's hardly any furniture yet, not a picture on the walls. Lyra pulls off her blouse once they get inside, and Galen takes a moment to let his eyes trace over the curve of her shoulders. He can see the strength in the muscles there, the way her lats lead down to her waist. She’s in nothing more than the skirt she wore to the restaurant, strange after all those months in the field with her, where she’d always worn baggy trousers, loose blouses. 

It’s as though she’s become part of this world. 

As though before now, Lyra was some wild thing, an adventure trapped in human form. But now, on Coruscant, she has suddenly become a woman, a strange creature of fire and need. Galen steps forward, traces a single finger down the bones of her spine. There’s something newly material about her body, as though eating in that room, living in the spaces of his real life, they have made her fully flesh. 

She turns, smiles up at him. There’s a terrible softness glinting in her eyes, a kind of care that’s beyond his ability to understand. Lyra reaches out and unfastens the clasps of his tunic. Galen lets go of her waist long enough to let his tunic drop off his shoulders. Then he’s back to tracing circles across her bare skin, thumbs rubbing at the soft places of her belly. 

“Galen…” Lyra breathes, and he feels his name whisper across his cheeks. “Maybe we should go to sleep. It’s been a long day.” Galen cocks his head to one side. He releases her waist and takes a step backward. 

“Is that what you really want, Lyra?” There’s a long moment, Lyra paused, still as a beacon flaming in the dark of space. Then she shakes her head, a strand of hair falling across her cheek. Galen takes a deep breath as she comes to him. Her hand slides across his chest, comes to rest wrapped lightly around his neck, her thumb teasing at his adam’s apple. He swallows, feels the shift of her fingers against his throat. 

“What do you want, Lyra?” He asks again. Her eyes have that look again, soft and sad, almost pitying. He thinks, for just a moment, that she is on some high mountain, overlooking his life, and she can see more than he has ever been able to. But then she laughs, voice clear, not his own rough rasp of whiskey and smoke. 

“You, Galen. Just you.” He gasps at the smell of her hair, a field of wildflowers sewn with cloves. For a moment Galen holds them together, wraps his arms around Lyra’s waist to press, flat palmed, between her shoulderblades. Lyra moves her hand from his throat to tangle in his hair, and Galen groans at the little pulls. He kisses behind her ear. 

“You were beautiful tonight, Lyra. We couldn’t look away from you.” He sucks on her earlobe, but pulls back when she laughs. 

“Oh Galen.” He pulls back a little. Lyra’s eyes are not adoring. No. Her lips press together, and it’s almost as though she wants to shake her head. Galen runs a thumb over her chin. 

“What’s wrong?”

Lyra doesn’t answer. Instead, she reaches down to open his trousers. Her hands snake around to slip beneath the waistband and palm his ass. Her fingers dig in and Galen squirms a little. He can feel her heart beating where their chests press back together. Lyra pushes his trousers down all the way, and Galen shivers at the chill for a moment. 

Lyra steps backward towards the bed, pulling him along by the hand that’s made its way back to his ass, and Galen follows. Then she spins them around, pushing him down to sit on the edge. She pulls off her skirt, and then she’s in only her stockings. Galen fingers across the top of one of them, thinks of the thick wool socks Lyra always wears during an expedition. 

What would have Orson have thought if she’d worn those instead of this fine thin silk? He can almost see the way Orson’s eyebrow would have quirked. 

Galen isn’t sure which he likes more: socks or stockings. 

Right now, though, right now he wants neither. He slides them down her legs, and Lyra makes a small noise of acceptance as his fingers trace back up the inside of her thighs. She straddles his waist, and Galen can feel her press against his cock. He’s half hard, and Lyra’s weight in his lap is sweet as honey. 

Lyra bends over him, presses her lips to his. For a moment, Galen keeps his lips closed. He has the strange feeling that if he opens them, the taste of whiskey and cigarettes will taint Lyra’s strength with human weakness. For just an instant, Galen thinks that all he deserves is the answering taste of small vices, not the bright wild sweetness of Lyra's mouth. Then Lyra traces over the shell of his ear with careful, questing fingers, and he gasps into her mouth. 

Galen buries his hand in Lyra’s hair, pulls her head back away from their deepening kiss. She squirms in his lap, and he bends down to kiss the soft skin between her breasts. Then he pinches a nipple with his free hand, licks at the other. He thinks he could spend hours just feeling the curve of her breasts. Hours nosing at them, licking and biting and marking. He wouldn’t, though. Lyra isn’t terribly sensitive here. 

It’s funny how well he knows her body’s reactions already, when before, with someone else, he had still been surprised after years of stolen kisses and quick relief. Perhaps he and Lyra just fit together like this. Maybe. 

Galen slides his hands underneath Lyra’s ass, stands as quickly as he can. He turns around and lets them both collapse on the bed, Lyra underneath him. Her hair fans out behind her head. Galen bends down and bites at the curve of her collarbone. She writhes. 

“Galen, touch me. I want to feel you before you fuck me.” Her cheeks are pink, but her voice is steady enough. He’s already learned that for all Lyra’s willingness to tolerate crass comments on the part of her crews - and Orson - she herself finds dirty talk challenging and almost embarrassing. He reaches a hand down between her legs, pushes her knees apart. 

“Do you want my my hands or my mouth?” He’s always been good with his mouth like this, though he’s not as quick or sharp tongued as Orson is in public. He nuzzles at the size of Lyra’s neck. She pulls slightly away. 

“Your hands. Touch me, Galen.” It’s a short path between where he’s holding her knees to her clit, and he traces it slowly. He can feel the curves of her muscles as they flex underneath the thin skin of her thighs, the softness at the crease of her hip. 

“Like this?” Galen strokes the soft hair between her legs then dips a single finger down to stroke at Lyra’s clit. Her thighs quake about him. She nods. 

Galen wonders what kind of picture they make. Are they beautiful where they fit together, like the lattice of crystals intertwining? He swallows thickly as Lyra arches her back underneath him. He can taste the harshness of whiskey at the back of his throat. The air sweats with the scent of cloves. If someone watched, could they see what Galen sees, looking down at Lyra?

He closes his eyes, imagines it. Someone sitting in the corner, eyes fixed on where he works Lyra up higher and higher, watching as he reaches up to wrap a hand lightly around the back of her neck. Behind his eyelids, Galen can see the smirk that they’d get, the glow of a cigarette as whoever watched them would lazily gesture. He gasps at the imagined heat of that gaze. 

“I’m ready, Galen I need you in me.” Lyra’s voice filters through his imagination, and his eyes flutter open. She reaches upward, traces a finger down the side of his face, then rests her hand on his shoulder. There’s something strangely familiar about the motion, something that tugs Galen back towards the scene playing itself out behind his eyelids, and he whimpers a little before he can catch himself. Lyra’s lips quirk, an awkward half smile, and she tugs her hand away to grab at her own knees. Then she’s pulling her legs apart, and Galen pushes into her. She’s hot around his cock, and he can hear her panting breath. He takes a long moment, settles himself.

Once, when Galen was younger, Orson had decided that he needed to try some new stim that was all the rage in the Brentaal clubs. He’d spent the night staring into Orson’s eyes, the colors bleeding together, feeling like the world had narrowed to the tiny space of air between them. Sound had trembled at the edge of hearing, light had become liquid. 

He almost feels like that now, the echo of it palpable in every thrust of his hips. The air is a blanket around them, and Lyra pants, scrabbling at his back. When he takes a deep breath, he drinks down memory and the musk of her skin. Her heels hook behind his back. There is nothing but them and the memories in Galen’s head, the fantasy watcher at the corner of his eye. There is nothing but the sound of flesh against flesh and the half remembered echo of Orson’s voice from so long ago. 

“Come on. Harder, Galen.” Lyra’s voice jerks him out of the fantasy again, and Galen bites his lip in frustration. But he snaps his hips faster against her, goes deeper and deeper. Lyra is here. There is no one watching, no drug fueled haze. He reaches between them to rub at Lyra’s clit and she groans. This is real and where he is. 

“Just a little bit more!” Her voice trembles, and Galen bends down to kiss her. She shudders, back arching underneath him, stomach flexing. 

“Beautiful, Lyra.” Galen whispers. She would be. They would be, together. A perfect picture, good enough for whoever is watching. Good enough for _him_. Galen’s balls draw up and he groans. 

“I’m about to come, Lyra.” She’s shaking, spasming around his cock, and he pulls his hand away from her clit to grab hold of her hips. Two thrusts, and he’s coming, bowing over her, sweat running down his face, sharp with the smell of cloves. 

He licks it off his own lips as he comes down, collapsing on top of Lyra. For a long moment, he just lies there, feels the softness of her breasts and the strength of the arm she wraps around his back. The fantasy evaporates from behind his eyes, and he’s left alone with her. He rolls off. 

“Good?” he murmurs in Lyra’s ear. She rolls to face him, presses a kiss to his forehead. He can see her nose scrunch up as she pulls away. 

“What were you thinking of, Galen? Your eyes seemed so far away.” Lyra strokes a hand through his hair, traces her fingers across the shell of Galen’s ear. He shivers.

“Just how beautiful we must be together. How perfect we look.” Lyra laughs a little, one eyebrow raised. 

“Admiring the aesthetics of sex now, Galen?” He shrugs. 

“It must be Coruscant. Even I can’t remain a rough and wild explorer forever.” Her lips thin, and she pushes herself off the bed. Galen watches her pad over to the fresher door, unconcerned in her nudity. When she gets there she pauses. 

“I don’t think it’s Coruscant.”

***

Galen hates this part of life on the capital. The desperate search for a way to one-up others, the constant maneuvering. He’s back to teaching at the Institute for Applied Science, but he still hasn’t found an apartment to move into permanently. Lyra’s finishing up her contract with Casin Mineralography, and pulling long hours to get them the reports they need. They simply don’t have enough time to play the Coruscant housing game. 

He’s sitting at his desk, idly thumbing through some possibilities on the holonet and trying not to get distracted by his work when his com chimes. He presses distractedly at the accept and Orson’s face flickers into life in front of him. 

They haven’t seen each other since the dinner Orson hosted when Galen and Lyra got back into town, but Galen has chatted more than a few times with Orson in the three intervening weeks. 

“Orson!” Galen smiles as he closes out of the apartment search. “What can I do for you?”

Orson grins back and runs a hand through his hair. He leans forward, close to the holorecorder, close enough that Galen can see the faint lines that are starting to form at the corners of his eyes. Orson’s only in his mid-twenties, and sometimes Galen wonders if he’s working himself too hard. 

“I think it’s more what I can do for you, Galen.” 

“It often is.” Galen can’t keep the slight tone of bitterness out of his voice. It’s harder than ever now to figure out what he can give back to Orson. He knows that kindness, friendship, it doesn’t have to be repaid, but still… He wonders.

“Don’t be like that. I just want you happy, Galen.” Galen nods. 

“I’m sorry, Orson. I know you do. I’m tired of this Force damned place already, that’s all.” Orson shrugs. 

“It’s not all bad. I’m here, after all.” Galen laughs. 

“Yes, yes. One Orson Callan Krennic to outweigh the smoke and the noise and the grime of Coruscant.” Galen feels his face settle, the mirth leaving his mouth, his eyes. “I suppose it’s not a bad deal, at that.” Orson beams at him. 

“Can I make it a little better?” Galen nods. 

“Meet me for lunch tomorrow. I think I may have found a solution to your housing problem.”

***

When he tells Lyra that Orson’s gotten them an apartment on the Institute grounds, he expects her to be delighted. It will be easy for her to go running, to enjoy the fresh air of the university rooftop parks. It’s much less of a commute to Casin Mineralogy and likely to wherever she takes a new contract. 

“Orson found it for us?” she asks. They’re in the kitchen of the dingy rooms they’ve been renting, and Lyra’s hand looks tight around her water glass.

“He said he knows someone at the housing office at the Institute and they worked it out.” Galen’s always astonished by how many people Orson seems to know. Housing and architecture and design and planning - there’s not a part of the Coruscant infrastructure that Orson doesn’t have his fingers in. It’s remarkable. Sometimes Galen wonders how Orson does it. 

Then he reminds himself that there are many kinds of genius. 

“Why?” Lyra asks, voice a little too loud.

“He’s my best friend, Lyra. He wants to help us.” Galen can’t understand why that surprises her.

“I’m sure he does want to help you, but this seems like a lot of work.” Lyra sets down the water glass and wraps her arms around herself, hugging her stomach. 

“Orson has always been willing to do a little extra work to help me. Just as I’ll always help him. That’s what friends are, after all.” Lyra raises an eyebrow. She reaches up to start tying her hair out of her face. 

“Then I suppose I am glad you have a friend like Orson.” She walks out of the room. Galen stands, looking after her, an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +There is some het smut in this chapter. It's on the border between Mature and Explicit, but definitely on the Explicit side of that boundary. 
> 
> +Extremely brief mention of past drug use. Galen remembers trying a club drug with Orson when they were students. 
> 
> +Come hang with me on tumblr at [saltandlimes](http://saltandlimes.tumblr.com/)


	3. Messages sent and invitations received

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Orson chapter, finally!

Orson scrolls aimlessly through his messages. There’s one about Galen’s new apartment on the Academy of Sciences grounds, just a veiled reminder that Orson owes a few favors now. He files that one for future reference and pages down. There’s a series of pointless updates on Corps of Engineering projects he’s not affiliated with. 

Then, under a series of missives about project calls for pointless offworld contracts, there’s a string of bright letters in the yellow of the city municipal authorities. 

**ATTN: CALL FOR PROPOSALS/BIDS FOR LARGE SCALE PROJECT, CORUSCANT/GALACTIC CITY. CORPS OF ENGINEERS ONLY**

Orson opens the file hesitantly. There’s a chance that it will be completely out of the range of his interests, some industrial project or a new spaceport design. But there’s also a chance that this, finally, is the Coruscant refurbishment project the Municipal Authority has been talking about for years. If that’s the case, he wants to put in a proposal as soon as possible. 

The screen lights and Orson’s stomach flips over. There, bright in front of him, the words stand on the screen. The project he’s been waiting for. 

He runs through the list of specifications for the project parameters. Refurbishment of most of the major Republic governmental buildings. A complete overhaul of the Senate facade. Several other smaller parks and towers that should coordinate with the new facade and landing pad. There are requests for added security in the proposed buildings, and a series of benchmarks that have to be met for a project to be even considered. He takes a deep breath. 

If he gets this project, it will seal his future. He can feel his stomach clenching, pants a little as he shudders with excitement. This is his chance to start himself on the road to greatness. 

***

The next few weeks pass in such a fevered haze of frantic work that Orson hardly has a chance to go back to his apartment and sleep, let alone keep up with his contacts and messages. He practically breathes the proposal for the Coruscant refurbishment project. When he finally closes his eyes at night, he does not dream of the program, of Galen’s laugh, of easy friendship. Instead, blueprints and finances dance there, filling his entire being. 

It’s worth it, though. Orson knows this late in the third week since the project was announced, when he’s pacing his office. He and his team submitted their bid at the beginning of this week. They were assured they’d hear by the end of the week, given the strongest guarantees of it, as much as anything can be guaranteed by the giant, bloated mess of Corsucant’s Municipal Authority. Orson can’t settle, feet dancing on their own every time he tries to take a moment to relax.

It’s almost the end of the business day before his datapad lights with an incoming message. Orson races to his desk, frantic fingers dancing over the pad to pull open the communique. 

They’ve gotten the contract. 

He’s going to lead the project to rebuild Coruscant. 

Orson sinks into his desk chair, breathless. He can hardly feel his fingers as they dance over the datapad, pulling up a reply form. His voice shakes a little as he dictates a response, trying not to sound too grateful. This is his due. He is the best person in the entire corps for this. He knows it. There is no reason to sound like a Loth cat who’s gotten an unexpected scrap of meat in his response. 

The message sent, Orson collapses further, sprawling, legs wide, slumped in his chair. He rolls his shoulders back, letting his chest puff out for long seconds. His head spins a little. His entire body hums with escaping energy. Orson lets his eyes slip shut for endless moments, seeing buildings rise and fall behind their shuttered lids. Then he clenches his fists and wills his eyes open again. 

He pulls his datapad back to him, cradling it in his lap as he rests, almost boneless, in the chair. There are a host of unread messages waiting for him, too long neglected while he and his team made plans for the future and fought for their contract. He flicks through them slowly, savoring the still moments now that he has no application to submit, no boon to beg, no talent to prove. 

Most of the messages are invitations to social events, all long past. There are a few that he should send regrets about missing, but most Orson simply deletes with a delighted swipe of a hand. 

It’s almost a week back in his messages when Orson finally finds something of interest. There, a single glowing line on the datapad, is a note from Galen. He taps it open, clenching his other hand on his thigh. 

_Orson! I haven’t heard from you in weeks. I want to thank you for finding the apartment. It’s wonderful. I have some news for you - could we meet up for lunch some time in the next two weeks. I miss you. I miss talking to you. - Galen_

Orson lets his eyes slide shut for a few moments. He can’t believe he missed a message from Galen. He should be better than that. Lyra is probably better than that sometimes. He shakes his head. He takes a few moments to steady his voice before he starts to dictate his response. 

_Galen, I’m so sorry. I’ve been buried in work and I just saw your message. Funny, how I’m the one ignoring you now. As if there’s anything I’d rather pay attention to, anything more important. But anyway. I also have so much to tell you. Would tomorrow in the middle of the day work? I know it’s late notice, but I really want to see you._

The message sent, Orson closes the datapad. Time to go home and sleep. Time to go home and perch on the edge of his bed, delaying sleep until he hears the chirp of his datapad, opens a message from Galen, stomach twisting in anticipation. Time to lie down, head on the pillow, Galen’s face in front of his eyes, dreams of Galen’s smiling mouth, visions of desperate anticipation. 

***

The next day, Orson pulls out a carefully pressed tunic for the first time in weeks. He slides it over his shoulders, straightening it in front of the mirror. A lock of hair falls across his forehead, but he doesn’t push it back. His bitten lips look red in the soft light filtering in from his windows, high up in one of Coruscant’s nicer apartment towers. 

He meets Galen outside of the Academy grounds. Galen’s hair has grown out a little, and Orson wants to tuck a strand of it behind his ear. Instead, he settles for pulling Galen into a hug, wrapping his arms tight around Galen’s shoulders and pressing his face into Galen’s neck. 

Galen smells of cloves and sandalwood, and the thin thready heat of his own sweat. His arms wrap around Orson’s waist, and Orson noses into the soft place where Galen’s shoulder meets his neck. His eyes slip shut. 

For long moments, they stand there, pressed together, and for the first time in weeks the tension drains out of Orson’s muscles, running down, pooling at his feet and vanishing into Coruscant’s filtered air. Then Galen pulls back, his arms going to Orson’s biceps. 

“How have you been, Orson? I was starting to get worried something happened.” Galen’s voice is light, but Orson can hear the sharp note of concern that lurks somewhere in Galen’s throat. 

“I’m sorry,” he takes Galen’s arm, starts leading him towards the cafe across the square. “I didn’t mean to ignore your message so long.” Orson pauses, turning to Galen, fingers tightening on Galen’s forearm.

“I would never want to worry you, Galen.” He can’t keep his voice light, not about this. 

“I know,” Galen smiles at him, and Orson’s stomach clenches. What he would give to get to see that smile every day… it’s terrifying even to contemplate. 

They find seats outside the cafe, on the terraced garden patio. There’s a huge fern that shades their table, and Galen, in his light travel shirt, seems perfectly at home. Orson orders for them both, getting caf and pastries, then small sandwiches to follow. He can feel Galen’s eyes tracing over him as he talks to the server. They linger on his face, on the heavy shadows Orson knows have found purchase under his eyes. 

“What _have_ you been doing?” Galen asks, and this time, there’s no question of the concern in his voice. Orson’s chest heats with it, and he takes a moment to bask before answering. 

“Working. Working very hard,” he replies, and Galen laughs. 

“Sure, Orson. Sure.” The server droid drops their caf and pastries in front of them, and Orson takes a long sip. 

“If you must know, Galen, you’re looking at the man who’s been appointed to refurbish most of the major municipal buildings on Coruscant.” Orson can hardly believe his own words. Galen’s jaw actually drops open. 

“You, what!?” he asks. 

“There was a call for bids a few weeks ago. The Municipal Authority is funding the project. I got a team together to put in a proposal, and we won. Galen, we won.” he’s breathing hard at the end of the sentence, success tightening his throat. 

“You… Oh Orson…” Galen reaches across the table and grabs Orson’s hand. Orson’s chest tightens too, and suddenly the world narrows down to the space where Galen’s fingers squeeze his. 

“I can’t believe it either.” He squeezes back, his entire soul feeling like it’s being poured into his fingertips. “But Galen… I shouldn’t have ignored your message. Not even for that.”

Galen laughs, lines webbing across his face as his eyes crinkle. He tosses his head a little to get his hair out of his face, and Orson follows the moment with his eyes. 

“Orson, this is everything you’ve been dreaming of. Of course you were focused on that. I’d have hated to have distracted you.” 

Orson’s saved from having to reply, from whatever absurd words would have found their way from his lips, by the arrival of their food. Galen releases his hand to take one of the sandwiches, and Orson has to clench his own in his lap to keep from reaching out and snatching Galen’s fingers back. He takes one of the crumbling pastries instead, fingers breaking it to tiny pieces.

“When did you find out?” Galen asks him, licking a spot of sauce away from his lips.

“Yesterday,” Orson replies, tracing the curve of Galen’s cheeks with his eyes. 

“Yesterday! Orson, have you not even celebrated yet?” Galen almost laughs the words, and Orson wonders if there’s a way to bottle mirth. 

“What do you think I’m doing now?” He asks, instead. 

“Orson. We’re talking about you. Having lunch with me isn’t a celebration. You deserve a bar and a party and music.”

“Maybe I’ve grown up.” Even Orson has to laugh at his words. When he catches his breath, though, he stares straight into Galen’s eyes. “Honestly, Galen. There is nothing I’d rather be doing than sharing this with you.” 

There’s nothing he’d rather do than share everything with Galen. 

Galen nods, mouth flattening a little. Orson notices, from the corner of his eye, Galen fidgeting with his napkin, fingers twisting it into a crumpled mess. 

“Galen, what is it?” he asks. His stomach tightens, and he takes another sip of cap, hoping to warm himself, chase away the cold starting to spread across his shoulders. Galen takes a deep breath, and Orson watches his chest swell. 

“I’m leaving Coruscant again.”

For a moment, Orson thinks he’s misheard. Then the cold slams through him. He trembles, hands shaking around his cup of caf. Galen is leaving. Leaving him, alone, to rot here, abandoned with his work and his triumph and his empty rooms. 

“Wha… why?” He asks, and he’s astonished that his voice does not break on that single word. 

“Lyra and I got a contract to investigate the caves on Chandrilla and analyze the crystal formations there.” 

Orson nods. Of course Galen and Lyra are going together. The cold starts to recede, giving way to a sort of numbness that threatens to eat up all his bones and leave Orson nothing more than a shell. 

“Good job, Galen,” he says hollowly. He takes a gulp of caf, too much, and it scalds his tongue. 

“Orson…” Galen’s eyes are too large, shining. “I don’t want… I’m going to be back soon.”

“I know. And you’re doing so well, Galen. You’re going to find something incredible there,” Orson takes a bite of his lunch, and it tastes like ash. The savour has already started to flee his world. He chews mechanically. “I’m proud of you too.”

Galen nods, but his shoulders draw in, and he somehow gets smaller in his seat. 

“Is Lyra excited?” Orson asks, trying not to hiss out her name. Galen brightens. 

“Beyond. She can’t stop talking about it. I think she’s starting to feel a little anxious about how she fits into the capital.”

“It’s not for everyone.”

“Maybe after you rebuild it, she’ll like it better. At least then it’ll be your work, and not some faceless architect from a few hundred years ago.”

Orson can’t hold back a laugh. With his luck, Lyra will hate it so much that she’ll convince Galen to leave permanently, and then where will he be? Left behind, alone, the world grey and dull about him. 

They finish lunch like that, small talk and forced grins, tightness at the corner of Galen’s eyes, and a desperation to Orson’s voice. 

“I’ll see you before you leave?” he asks when the server has brought him the bill. Galen nods. 

“You can come to the spaceport with us, as far as I’m concerned. Orson…” They stand to leave, and Galen draws close to his side. “I… I’m going to miss you. You know that, right?”

Orson slaps his fist into the side of his thigh, pain lancing through him sharply. It’s enough to let him take a deep breath and turn to Galen. 

“I know, Galen. Not as much as I’ll miss you, but I know.” Galen shakes his head slightly, but says nothing. They make their way across the square in silence, not touching. Then, just outside the entrance to the Academy, Galen stops. 

“I’ll message you, tell you the timeline for when we’re going to leave, alright?” 

Orson nods, his throat too tight to actually respond. Galen reaches out, wrapping a hand around the back of Orson’s neck. He brings their faces together, foreheads touching. For a moment, they stand like that, breathing the air trapped between them. Orson drinks it down, tries to suck up every molecule that has already passed Galen’s lips. 

“You’ll do incredibly, Orson. You’re a genius.” 

_Not without you,_ Orson wants to respond. I’m not anything without you, Galen. But he doesn’t. Instead, he forces out another laugh, then collapses into Galen’s arms. 

It’s warm there, and for a moment, Orson wonders what would happen if he never let go. If they stayed here, the seasons changing about them, the world leaving them behind, hearts beating in time. There’s nothing but the heat of Galen’s cheek against his, the darkness of Galen’s eyes as they look at him, the play of Galen’s fingers over his back, and he can’t dream of anything else. 

Galen pulls away. 

“See you later!” he says brightly, and then he’s walking away, back to Orson, mind already somewhere else.

***

Orson waits until he is back in his apartment before burying his head in his hands, hysterical laughter somehow finding its way out of his lips. 

He’s never going to forget about Galen again. 

This is what happens when he leaves Galen alone. This is what happens when he doesn’t check in regularly. _This._

He can never let this happen again. He can’t lose Galen. He’ll shatter and fall in shards on the ground, one half of a broken whole. He is nothing without Galen, nothing without the missing piece of his soul. 

He’s never leaving Galen to his own devices again. 

Never.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our plot thickens... and the angst increases. 
> 
> (Yes, I'm monkeying around a little with the exact series of events in canon. Yes, I am happy with that)
> 
> Come join me and obsess over all things galennic and Orson Krennic related on tumblr [@saltandlimes](http://saltandlimes.tumblr.com/)


End file.
